


Lonely-Hearts

by Bebravenow



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Power Swap, Lonely!Martin, M/M, hunter!jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bebravenow/pseuds/Bebravenow
Summary: Jon finds things. Martin is hard to find.





	Lonely-Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I binged The Magnus Archives in a week during the season 3 break. I was really fascinated by the ideas of Powers who oppose another intrinsically and wrote the majority of this in a rush. Then the season started and Lonely!Martin became a much less fun idea. But I should never have doubted my boy Martin and this became a fun idea again and it begged to be finished so, this is that.

It’s a standard start to a case, a catalog envelope placed on Jon’s doormat. It took long enough; Jon’s started to feel the yearning ache that swells when he walks past people in the street. It’s frustrating to get so close to a breaking point, but they only send him the difficult ones these days after the one who had only moved a town over gave a statement made mostly of unintelligible crying.

The sound of the packet opening is like a trigger pulling back.

As far as Jon can tell, Martin Blackwood is a nobody. No family, no friends, nothing particularly special about him at all. There’s three written statements in the packet, all from Martin himself. The first two are blatant lies overloaded with cliches and trite endings. Jon’s first instinct is to crumple them up. He doesn’t, wouldn’t be so cavalier with evidence, but he does toss them aside with more force than is necessary.

The third statement is…odd. It begins with an apology for lying on the previous statements, saying he just wanted to sit with someone for a bit. It continues by remarking that the Institute employee seems to have forgotten Martin is there, says that they keep looking up and doing a double take when they see him. “That’s been happening a lot lately,” it reads. 

Martin talks about bumping into strangers who move on as if nothing had happened. He talks about ordering a tea and a few minutes later the barista’s left standing at the counter with a to-go cup and an utterly baffled look. About his roommates introducing themselves, telling him they’re excited to meet the elusive Martin, only to repeat the conversation when he sees them next.

A small, vicious feeling inside Jon perks up at finding something that might be interesting. He reads through all the statements again, the information the assistants scraped together, reads it all a second, third, tenth time, and starts piecing a plan together.

* * *

If he’s being honest, Martin first noticed the man because he was, well, kind of handsome. Not ‘cover of GQ’ handsome or anything, but he’s all angles, with dark, knowing eyes and a standoffish air about him that Martin refuses to examine the appeal of. It’s not until the man is moving toward him that Martin realizes while he was looking at the man, the man was looking _ back _.

Martin looks behind him to see if someone else is the real target and turns back to the man standing directly in front of him.

“There you are,” the man says nonsensically. He shrugs off his coat, sets it on the back of the chair across from Martin, and sits down. 

“I- I- I’m sorry, do I…know? You?” Martin stutters out, voice slightly raspy from disuse.

“Definitely not,” the man says. “But I know you, Martin Blackwood.”

Hearing another person say his name is a jolt through his body. His breath is caught in his lungs and, embarrassingly, Martin feels like he might cry. The stunned silence doesn’t faze the man at all.

“My name is Jonathan Sims, Investigator for the Magnus Institute. You made some statements a while back. They’d like you to follow up on them.”

Martin’s mouth opens and he hears himself say, “Would you like a drink?”

It’s been a while since Martin humiliated himself. It’s just as agonizing as he remembers…But, there’s almost a good kind of pain to it, like pressing down on a knotted muscle or biting the skin around his fingernails until they bleed.

“I’m working,” Jon says.

“Right, yeah, sorry, that wasn’t- I mean,” Martin stutters out. Jon gives him a confused look, not seeming to understand what Martin is flustered about. Martin looks down at his drink he swiped from the bar counter, taps his fingers against it.

“So,” Jon says. “The follow up.”

“What? Oh, uh, no thanks.”

Jon’s eyebrow goes up. “No thanks?” he repeats.

“Ye…ah? I’m pretty sure those aren’t mandatory and I don’t really like how that place, uh, feels.” Martin suppresses a shudder. He remembers vaguely that he liked the place before, that it felt kind of like a weighted blanket. Nowadays it feels like something’s trying burn him with a magnifying glass.

“Be that as it may,” Jon says, unimpressed, “I’m going to need you to go down there, anyway.”

The baffled laughter is out before Martin can stop it. He freezes, clears his throat, chokes out, “No? I won’t?” Jon’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth but Martin barrels on, “How did you even find me?”

Jon sits up a little straighter, a not-quite smile on his lips. “I’m very good at finding people.”

The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stand on end. Part of Martin, the part that still jumps at loud noises and shrinks away from the sight of blood, is suddenly reminded that humans didn’t start out at the top of the food chain. 

The rest of Martin feels like an adult talking to a toddler.

Martin stands up, considers his drink before sliding it across the table to sit in front of Jon. Jon is watching drunken bar patrons with awkward distaste and doesn’t react. Martin leans his hip against the table and watches Jon blink a few times before jerking back to Martin’s now-empty chair, then at Martin standing next to him.

“I’m very good at hiding,” Martin says and gives Jon a small smile. “Goodbye, Jon.”

Martin walks out of the bar, leaving Jon watching a group badly singing along with the jukebox, his fingers tapping restlessly against a drink he never ordered.

* * *

Jon gets a packet in the mail.

“Finally,” he mutters to himself. It’s been long enough that he’s been worried about withdrawal. It hasn’t started yet, but-

Jon pauses, partway through opening the packet. Why _ hasn’t _ he felt any negative side effects? It’s been long enough that he should have passed the shakes and started worrying about his neighbors. But he feels- sharp. Clear-headed. _ Wanting _.

And there’s that digging in his brain telling him he’s forgotten something, something important. It’s been eating away at him since he found himself in that awful bar, he thought due to withdrawal. He’d left quickly, only eating the cherry from the drink that he didn’t remember ordering…

Jon throws the unopened packet onto the table. It knocks some papers off and Jon bends down to grab them, his eyes gliding over the details at first before he forces himself to focus.

He reads, every carefully written line like a half remembered childhood story. He only hesitates long enough to throw on his coat and shoes before hurrying out of his apartment to the Magnus Institute, going to the Archives on auto-pilot. A handful of people react to him but he strides by without a second glance.

When Jon looks up from his research it’s the middle of the night. He’s alone, surrounded by statements from an assortment of random people, the only recurring themes an empty London and a man who’s sole distinguishing feature is ‘large’. 

Jon doesn’t know how long he’s been grinning.

* * *

Jon doesn’t look like a hunter. Doesn’t act like one, either, the rest almost mindless in their fervor. For them, giving in meant letting go completely. There is a bit of that for Jon but he didn’t start on this path. He only arrived here because he wanted to _ know _, so desperately it almost destroyed him. He was searching for a woman who had changed her name twice and moved to Greenland, and through pure dedication found her. And after all the digging, the exhaustion, the sacrifice…he found only more questions. Questions that might be answered with more digging and sacrifice and energy Jon didn’t have anymore. So, instead, he said his goodbyes, left her house, went back to the terrible motel he had been forced to stay at, and signed on for another week.

Then he found the trail she had left after running again and followed it once more.

The hunt isn’t always stalking through dense forests or chasing monsters down alleyways. Sometimes the hunt is a last known address and remembering an affinity for overpriced coffee. For Jon, the hunt was the realization that the chase brings an ending where questions never could.

* * *

The restaurant is…well-lit. That’s one positive Jon can find. The tables are cramped with ornate and uncomfortable looking chairs and a fifth of the menu has real gold flakes as garnish, but. Jon can see. That’s something.

It’s the sort of place he expects to find Martin only because he finds pieces of Martin everywhere; museums and bowling alleys, internet cafes and hiking trails, nothing appears to escape Martin’s interest. Although Jon would be hard pressed to say what Martin actually _ likes _. Jon’s only here because one of the statements mentioned a Martin-like character who talked about this building so Jon has been going through the place methodically, floor by floor, business by business.

He’s looking over the place when an employee asks for his reservation details. He avoids the question, starts to ask some of his own, when he realizes that person he’d reflexively skipped over looks familiar.

“I’m with him,” Jon says, walking away without another word.

Every step closer is a clearer memory; sandy hair, freckles, how he had stammered and shook when the only threat was another person seeing him.

“Hello Martin,” Jon says, once again sliding into the seat opposite him.

Martin jumps, knocking his elbow against the table. The contents of the table quiver and Martin’s attempts to save the cubist-looking vase holding a succulent are more dangerous than the initial hit. Jon watches and can’t help but be amused. 

“I’m so sorry, have you been waiting long?” A waitress arrives, trying to pass the two of them menus. Martin is frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at Jon and still clutching the tiny succulent, so Jon grabs both menus. The waitress, entirely unfazed, continues, “Our reservation system has been acting up. Your first bottle of wine is on the house, of course. Is there anything else I can do to make up for the mistake?”

“No, that’s fine, wine would be lovely,” Jon says.

“We were unable to find any information on whether we’re celebrating anything tonight. Anything special? Birthday? Anniversary?”

Martin chokes at that, face turning such a bright red it gives Jon sympathy embarrassment. Martin darts his gaze from Jon to the waitress, eyes a bit wild. And, well. Jon is good at following A to B, at working the problem in front of him down to the bone, but no one has ever called Jon especially observant about _ people _, so it probably means something that even Jon can see what’s going on here.

He gives the waitress a small smile. “Oh no, nothing that serious, yet. This is only our second date.”

Martin chokes again.

“Ah, I see,” the waitress says warmly. “I’ll go get you some water and leave you two alone. Here is our wine menu, take your time choosing.” She passes Jon a smaller, leather bound menu before walking away.

Jon looks to Martin, who is staring back, shock and disbelief plain on his face. Jon opens the wine menu, carefully doesn’t react at the prices, closes it.

“I do hope you’re not planning on leaving me alone here. My job requires some running but I’m ill-prepared for dining and dashing,” Jon says.

Martin huffs out a laugh, watches Jon’s face a moment longer, then starts laughing for real.

Jon wakes up the next morning with that feeling like there’s something he’s forgetting. It only lasts until he gets into the kitchen and finds the succulent on his counter.

* * *

“Hello Martin,” Jon says, sliding into the seat across from Martin again. Marin tries to tamp down on the grin at how easy Jon does it now, like this is how it’s supposed to be, like it was written in Jon’s planner instead of Jon once again showing up where Martin hasn’t been waiting.

_‘Like a date,’ _Martin thinks entirely against his will. He tugs a drink free from the tray of to-go cups and places it in front of Jon while Martin fades out enough to try and recover from his blush. Jon blinks down at it.

“You brought drinks?” Jon asks, taking it. His eyes are in the general direction of where Martin is. They don’t quite focus, but he tries anyway. Martin lets himself watch for a few seconds before fading back in.

“You, uh, you bought me a hot chocolate before, in the garden? So, I just-” he gestures to the drinks, pushes the paper bag toward Jon as well. “There’s some pastry stuff, too.”

“Are we allowed to have food in here?” Jon asks. “I can’t imagine they’d be thrilled to have tea spilled all over their books.”

Martin shrugs. “What they can’t see won’t hurt them.”

“I find the things you don’t see are usually the most painful,” Jon says, pulling the plain croissant out of the bag. 

“You would,” Martin says and it comes out less accusatory and more fond. He clears his throat and ducks his head down to look back at a book he’d been perusing before.

“What are you reading?” Jon asks.

Despite Martin being four chapters in, he has to flip to the cover to find the title.

“Uh, ‘The Fires Of The Eternal Dragon’. It’s. Not very good,” Martin says, closing the book without bothering to keep his place.

“Why are you reading it, then?”

“It was in one of those ‘We Recommend’ sections but no one had taken any. I felt bad for them, so I tried it. Now I know why they were untouched.”

Jon always has an intensity to his gaze but every now and then Martin will say or do something that makes Jon go from watching him to Watching him, a difference that gives Martin goosebumps. Martin can’t figure out what it is that causes the change and is unsure if, should he figure it out, he would do it more or less.

And then Jon smiles at Martin and in that instant Martin knows more, definitely more, no matter how antithetical it feels, Martin wants Jon’s attention for as long as he can get it. 

“Would you mind if I worked while I was here?” Jon asks, reaches down to open his bag. It’s filled with manila folders, notebooks, papers, all neatly crammed in to fit so many.

“No, not at all,” Martin says, watching Jon go right for a specific folder that doesn’t stand out at all from the herd. “How much of that is, uh, me?”

“Oh, most of it,” Jon says easily, as if that doesn’t start Martin’s heart racing. “But there’s another case that the Institute keeps bothering me about; ‘Jude Perry’.”

“Who's that?”

“Some- _ arsonist _,” Jon says like it’s a dirty word. 

“And you’re meant to stop her?”

“They hardly need me for that. They want what they always want: information.”

“So how do you find her? Follow the smoke?"

“Finding her isn’t the issue. She isn’t a subtle person.”

“You already found her? Why do you need to find her again?” Martin says. It’s absurd to feel…well, it’s absurd to feel _ anything _about Jon chasing another person. Martin knows he’s not Jon’s only case. He may have assumed he was the only repeat offender, but that’s- it’s not important.

“It’s not so much about tracking her down, it’s about finding out how to get close. She has a way of, hm. Chasing people off.” Jon stops and places that heavy gaze back on Martin and it’s not comforting, definitely not, no warm pool in Martin’s stomach, no sir. “Have you heard of the Cult of the Lightless Flame?”

“No?”

“Well, they’re…they’re like us, I suppose.” Hearing Jon categorize them together makes Martin’s fingertips go tingly. Hearing Jon talk about another affected human makes him wonder how easy it would be to make that file on Jude Perry disappear. “But they’re- fire, heat, destroying things-”

“Oh! The hot people, with the-” Martin gestures to his face. “Wax.”

“Yes,” Jon says after a moment. “Them. Have you dealt with them before?”

Martin shrugs. “Once or twice. So what makes this one so important?”

“Looking for information on an Agnes Montague. Jude Perry is supposed to know her.”

Martin nods, takes a sip from his tea. Tries to keep his mouth shut.

“Is she devoted?” Martin asks.

“Devoted?”

“To her, uh. Power…giver?”

Jon’s gaze is careful as he responds. “Yes. She’s very. _ Devout _.”

“Oh.” Martin nods a few times, drinks some more tea. Jon doesn’t look away.

Martin cracks.

“I might be able to help.”

Jon doesn’t pause as he leads Martin along, as if he can see traces in the air of where this person has been. They stop when they reach a table outside a cafe. A woman, Asian and wearing a tank top despite the chill, is sitting there and watching the world around her like she’s waiting for the punchline. When she notices Jon walking her way her smile is a warning.

“Jon!” She calls out. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Jon pulls out a chair, furthest from Jude, and waits. Martin bites his lip to smother his silly grin and takes it. Jon slides onto the chair beside Martin without looking away from Jude.

“Not exactly,” Jon says.

Martin clears his throat and Jude’s eyes go blank for a second before she blinks at him.

“Oh. Who’re you?” She says, then gasps theatrically. “Jon! Did you bring me a present?”

“_ No _.” Jon’s voice is like steel. Jude’s grin gets wilder.

“Um, actually,” Martin says, interrupting their staring contest. “Jon told me about your…god?”

Her eyes turn to molten steel and she snaps out, “What about it?”

“You can feel them?”

She never drops that dangerous aura but her smile becomes sickeningly loving.

“Oh, yes. I feel it, the pure, agonizing love that boils the blood right from your veins. Do you want to feel it, too?” She asks, leaning in. Jon moves closer, but Martin is already backing away.

“No, no, no, I’m all right, thanks! I, um, I guess I just want to know what it- feels like? I’ve never…I mean, I guess that’s part of the package when you sign on with the Lonely-” her eyes narrow in interest, reconsidering him. “And obviously you don’t have to tell me, I’m not, um, taking a statement or- or- whatever. I’m just…I want to know? What it’s like?” Martin asks, and the want in his voice isn’t entirely fake.

Jude taps her blunted nails on the table, digging them deeper into her waxy fingers. She tilts her head and watches Martin fidget.

“Poor little lamb,” she says, voice almost grating. “All _ alone _ , stolen from his flock. I suppose there’s some comfort in walking the fields by yourself, but where’s the fun? What’s the point if you don’t feel anything? My god is a reckoning; a ceaseless, endless, _ gorgeous _pyre that burns martyrs and sinners alike. My god-” Jude stops. For a second she doesn’t breathe. “My god…” she starts again, the smallest traces of doubt beginning to curl at the edges.

“Your god?” Martin prompts. She refocuses on him and under Martin’s fingers the table begins to warm.

“What did you- what did you do?” She hisses.

“Do…?” Martin asks. “I don’t understand.”

“You did something, you took-” she cuts herself off but Martin follows.

“Took? Took what, your…god? I don’t- oh! Oh, can you not feel it anymore? That’s awful! But I didn’t do that, how could I?” Martin says. Her face begins to bubble with anger but she’s not looking at him, not looking at anything. “Do you think that, maybe, it’s that you’re not wanted anymore? I mean, really though, is it that big of a shock? You’re not very important, are you.”

“Shut. Up."

“Maybe you fulfilled your purpose! That could be good, right? That it doesn’t need you anymore? Or, maybe it realized it never needed you, that you were more of a liability than anything, you know? I mean, how can you be sure that you were ever truly wanted? That you weren’t burned up years ago?”

Jude screams, heat coming off her like a house fire. She slams her hands on the table, cracking the glass and congealing her fists against the surface, her forgotten coffee tipping over.

The nearby pigeons don’t stop their quest for dropped crumbs. Those people seated nearby don’t pause in their conversations. Jon frowns at the coffee soaking into his shirt sleeve and starts dabbing at it with a napkin.

Martin looks up from his fingernails just in time to catch Jude refocusing on him, her anger and fear fueling one another.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Martin asks politely.

* * *

The statement Jon gets from Jude Perry isn’t exactly coherent, mostly yelling between sharp stops and starts. But it is a statement, nonetheless, the thing he’d been looking for when not searching for Martin. And it’s because of Martin that he has it.

Martin is still walking with him, a little more careful, a little more weary. Jon keeps his eyes trained on Martin and swears he can see Martin fade in and out of sight.

“Are you all right?” Jon asks.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yes, I’m okay. Just, a little tired.”

“Does that- drain you?”

“Sometimes. A little.” Martin rubs his eyes. “I hate doing that,” he says quietly and Jon isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that.

“Isn’t that what you’re meant to do?”

“I don’t think so? At least, that’s not how I do it. I find the people who are already lonely, the ones who need to let go.”

Jon hums in acknowledgement. “What must you think of me then,” he says, affecting distance but surprises himself by how much he cares about the answer.

“Oh, well, I dunno. Kind of- exciting, isn’t it? Chasing down what you want, not letting anything stop you.” Martin swallows, looks at Jon, and he becomes more visible. More there.

“What about you?” Martin asks.

“Hm?” Jon asks, blinking out of his daze.

“What does it feel like when you do your…” Martin waves his hand in the air in a way that Jon can’t begin to understand how it correlates to what Jon does.

“It is…definitely tiring. Sometimes I sleep for two or three days after.”

“I bet. But, what about during?” Martin asks. “I mean, only if you want to say! Was that too personal? I don’t mean to push or- or-”

“Martin,” Jon says, halting Martin’s babbling. Martin shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched up. Jon doesn’t let the silence linger.

“It feels like…Like you’re staying up late to finish a book. You can finish it tonight, you know you can, and you need to see how it ends. And every corroborating statement, every recognized photograph, every correct step is another chapter closer to the ending. Then it’s just a matter of finding out if it’s a good ending or a bad one.”

Martin nods, darts looks at Jon when he thinks Jon can’t see.

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asks.

“Oh! Oh? Oh. I uh, I was just wondering. Was I a good ending? Or was it, uh…not?”

Jon watches Martin; his blush, the way he could loom over everyone but hunches in on himself, the way his lower lip pouts out just that little bit.

“Jon?” Martin asks. They’ve stopped walking, Martin frozen in place. The urge to walk over, cover Martin’s mouth with his own, and bite down on that lip is almost overwhelming.

Jon looks into Martin’s eyes, and he looks like he’s asking Jon to.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, finally. “I haven’t caught you yet.”

Jon isn’t aware of how long they’d been standing there until Martin blinks, looks around them, starts walking. Jon shakes himself before following a step behind, keeping Martin in his sight. And Martin- doesn’t leave. Jon keeps expecting to find himself walking alone, checking his pockets to figure out if he forgot something.

When they make to Jon’s building neither of them make any moves to go. Martin shuffles in the cold, pulling his coat tighter around him. When he exhales there’s just a hint of cloud in the air.

Jon steps forward, reaches out to grab onto Martin’s bicep. Martin doesn’t jump, doesn’t pull away. The two of them watch the other and the longer it goes on the stronger Jon’s skin buzzes until he feels he might be vibrating. Or maybe that’s Martin, trembling under Jon’s hand.

Slowly, Jon pushes himself up onto his toes to press his mouth against Martin’s.

Jon snaps out of his daze to find himself standing in front of his building, staring at nothing, his hand hovering in the air. He sighs and rubs his forehead, wonders at the curious disappointment hanging heavy in his chest. Talking with Perry must have taken more out of him than he thought. The whole conversation is- hazy, distant somehow, probably from lack of sleep. Jon goes to let himself into the building. He double checks he has everything with him but can’t help feeling he left something important behind.

* * *

The glass had always been there. 

Martin had been desperate, looking for any job, any deal, _ anything _that could keep him and his mom above water. His CVs were completely fabricated at this point, full of Martins he might have been if he’d been stronger or smarter or, well, better. But it didn’t matter. His mom fell and broke her leg, and before Martin knew it she had convinced the nurses at the hospital to let her sign herself into a nursing home. Martin couldn’t even put her in a nice one; she ended up in some state-run facility called Ivy Meadows. He visited her all the time, talking about her coming back home once her leg was healed. But every time he visited she was happier than Martin had seen in years and happiest when he left.

Then the place went up. And he had nothing. Not even the disdainful look from an old woman who was eager to forget him.

He still tried. Of _ course _ he tried, one of the only good comments on his school reports was ‘Martin is very determined, and finishes everything he starts’. He found a part time job at a gardening store, smiled at customers, went to get-togethers and poetry nights and community theater auditions. But no matter what he did Martin could never _ reach _ anyone. At his lowest, he started going to different churches to listen to whatever sermon they gave just so he wouldn’t be alone, to prove to himself he still _ existed _. It didn’t take long to see how much worse it was to be surrounded by people mostly going out of obligation to some higher power Martin wasn’t even sure was real.

Martin had spent his entire life banging at some invisible glass that kept his mother at bay and, now that she was gone, Martin was forced to realize the glass was a part of him.

Then one day Martin got up, got ready, left the flatshare, and walked all the way to the bus stop before noticing there was no one around. Not just up too early or a lull in traffic, but everywhere he looked was completely devoid of people. 

He ran around for a bit, opening every door that was unlocked (all of them), shouting for help (none came), called every number he could (didn’t even get voicemails or automated messages). No one was hiding, no natural disaster hit that he hadn’t heard about. Every person had simply vanished and left him behind.

The terror had been creeping from his chest up to the back of his throat, bitter and frantic. He waited for it to take over, but…it didn’t. Instead there was this blanket of relief that settled over him. No smiling at customers for them to walk away, no eating on a park bench watching families at playgrounds, no standing in the middle of a city of thousands without a single person looking at him.

Martin went back to the bus stop, sat down, and watched morning break on the city like a show that only existed for one.

If the glass was still there, no one was left to know but him.

* * *

Jon not showing up for a while isn’t...well, ‘new’ implies that there’s a standard to deviate from. Which there isn’t. They don’t really know each other well enough for that. In the grand scheme of things they’ve only just met. But, somehow Martin has come to expect Jon popping up, no rhyme or reason, no matter where Martin ends up.

Martin isn’t an idiot, he’s aware that Jon’s interest is- conditional, and it was never a mystery as to what would happen should the conditions get met. Before, when Jon was just a surprise that showed up when Martin least expected it, that was a relief. Jon’s attention is overwhelming, heady, like Martin could get drunk off of it. Even having it for a short time wore Martin down and sent him to the Empty London to recharge. 

It’s still overwhelming, but in a way that Martin has started to crave. He still doesn’t think he could handle it full time. That doesn’t stop him from wanting it. 

But that would require the conditions being met and Martin would rather have this, these brief, chaotic moments of electrifying attention than whatever it would be like to have all of Jon once.

In any case, no matter his feelings or the situation, Jon hasn’t been around. At first Martin thought he might be making it too hard. He tries to make it challenging enough for Jon to hopefully keep it interesting for him, but maybe he’s assuming too much in thinking that Jon would always be willing to go the extra mile when the prize at the end is only him. So he switches it up, starts leaving more people behind, even starts revisiting their previous meeting points. But nothing brings Jon to him.

After a month with no sign of Jon anywhere, Martin makes his decision. He forces himself each agonizing step forward to The Magnus Institute.

Logically he knows nothing about it has changed. It looks exactly the same as the place he visited a few times before when he was first lost in the Lonely. Nothing about the building should make him feel so young, so insignificant, so paranoid. 

Martin navigates with dubious success. The back of his neck sweats the whole time he shuffles around the Institute, looking for any information placards. It takes around 30 minutes, partly from being lost and partly from being overly cautious, before he finds the Archives.

It’s an overcrowded labyrinth with shelves covered in files, boxes, boxes full of files, and an allergy inducing amount of dust. There seems to be little care given to this section and even though being in the Institute makes Martin want to scream, the forgotten aura of this place feels a little more homey.

A woman holding some files against her chest opens a door and begins to walk through, expertly navigating through the maze of a place. Martin steels himself and _ pushes _ until she slides to a stop and looks at him.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her tone hard and unyielding. Martin can barely bring himself to inhale, much less say anything. She takes a few steps closer to Martin.

“Can I help you.” This time it’s not a question. “Because this area is off limits to the public, so if you don’t have a reason to be here then it’ll be in your best interest to get out of here as soon as-”

“I’m looking for Jonathan Sims!” Martin blurts out. The woman raises an eyebrow and looks him over.

“Are you looking for him because he dismissed, insulted, or otherwise pissed you off in some way? There’s a complaint file for that.”

“What? No, I, uh, I just-”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t know. He hasn’t checked in for a while, off doing some spooky Archive field trip.”

“About Jude Perry?” Martin asks.

“You know about Jude Perry?” Martin nods and she considers him again, gives a small hum. “No. He’s off chasing someone- something- called Orsinov. Jon was in Russia, last I heard.”

“Russia? That’s. Far,” Martin says to himself.

She answers him anyway, “Russia is far, yes.” She doesn’t laugh but her amusement is obvious and Martin fades back instinctively as his face flushes. 

She blinks at where Martin was, goes to a nearby desk and places the folders in her arms on top of it. She doesn’t sit, just bends down to look through the contents. Martin goes to stand behind her to read over her shoulder.

“Mr Blackwood?”

Martin jumps a foot in the air, nearly tripping in his attempt to look at the owner of the voice. A man stands in the Archives doorway who makes Martin fade away even further. He looks normal, suit and tie with coiffed hair, but something about him feels like concrete shoes.

“What? Has your creepy radar gone on the fritz?” the woman says and her anger is somehow both casual and intense.

“Actually, I was speaking to your new friend here,” the man says, gesturing to Martin.

“Wha- oh!” The woman jumps and it takes a moment for Martin to figure out she’s not looking through him. “I’m- I’m sorry, I guess I. Thought you left?”

Martin’s mind is an error screen. He looks back and forth between the two, completely at a loss.

“Would you mind following me to my office, Mr Blackwood? I think it’s about time we talked,” the man says pleasantly.

Martin takes a step away from him. With that the woman goes from annoyed to murderous. She steps in front of Martin, hands clenched into fists.

“I don’t know what bullshit game you’re playing, Elias, but I’m not going to let you take some random person-”

“Melanie,” Elias sighs. “I _ am _sorry-” she scoffs and he only pauses for a second before continuing, “but I don’t have the time nor the inclination to stop and explain everything to you. Again. Mr Blackwood, if you will follow me, I'll tell you where Jon is.” He nods to Melanie before walking off without another look back.

The glare the woman, Melanie, gives Martin almost burns. Martin mumbles a quick ‘thank you’ to her before fading out as much as he can and hurries after the man.

* * *

It’s difficult to keep himself at bay whenever Nikola enters the room. All Jon wants is to snap at them, to force his mouth around their neck and bite until his teeth can grind against each other. There’d be no point to it anyway. Nikola hasn’t had any blood for centuries, he expects. The song of blood isn’t just not there, it’s the jarring quiet after a scream gets cut off. 

He can’t overplay his hand here. The only reason Nikola is keeping him alive is their belief that his skin can be swapped out for Gertrude’s. The second Nikola finds out Jon left that path is the second he ceases being useful. So despite the growing hunger in his chest, the clawing need to _ chase _, Jon stays silent and still as Nikola dotes on his skin and he waits for his chance.

Jon isn’t sure how long it’s there before he notices it. It’s like the wind blowing outside your window- you don’t really notice until it starts to pick up. It’s distant and muffled but it’s there; a heartbeat. 

Jon tilts his head to hear it better, sniffs the air in an attempt to pick up the source. Jon has to swallow over and over as the heartbeat continues. It’s hard to tell if it’s getting closer, but it’s not getting further. There’s a rattling and deep in his mind he recognizes that it’s him, trembling with eagerness against the wall. He shuffles away to stop the noise and waits, waits, _ waits _.

The door opens. Jon pounces. 

His claws are bound behind his back. That’s not a worry. He headbutts their face and the back of their head slams into the floor. There’s no blood, yet. Jon darts to their neck. His teeth press against their throat. The veins there sing to him. He inhales. There’s so much fear. It’s dizzying. He sniffs again. There’s something there. Something familiar. He knows...He _ knows _…

He’s laying on the floor. What was he doing? How did he get here? Where’s Nikola… no, where’s that heartbeat.

The door is open.

Jon brings his hands up to push himself off of his stomach. His limbs are shaking enough it’s a struggle to get himself standing and he has to fall against the door frame. His wrists are covered in thin, red lines from the piano wire that was there before.

The heartbeat is out in the hallway. He crouches down low and follows. 

There should be others here, other bloodless creatures that imitate life, but it’s empty. Completely empty save for Jon and the heartbeat.

He follows it through the hallways, a million different turns he remembers when those two pawns dragged him in here. There are times that he should catch it, where the heartbeat corners itself and has to backtrack but somehow it slips around Jon and starts up again behind him. Jon follows, always tense, waiting to pounce, until he’s faced with a steel door open to a snow storm outside. 

Jon stays low as he follows the heartbeat out. It’s harder to see in the storm but in the distance there’s the outline of a city. And behind him-

Jon surges backward in an attempt to pin the heartbeat to the building. He slams into the wall, nothing there, but for a moment he can see a puff of air in the cold.

“Jon,” the voice is behind him and he throws himself only to snatch at empty air.

“Jon, you have to go!” It’s to his right and he swings his arm to try and grab but there’s nothing, _ nothing _, his fingers going numb in the bracing air.

“Jon, please, you can’t stay here,” the voice sounds close to tears and that should mean he’s getting closer but he’s getting nowhere and it doesn’t make sense where is it _ where is the heartbeat _-

Jon crashes into it, landing them both in the snow with Jon on top. Jon jams his claws down, tears through the cloth to grab at the skin underneath, to pin it down. It cries out but the voice, the heartbeat, doesn’t disappear.

“It’s okay, Jon. It’s okay. You can catch me. I’m here. You caught me, I’m here. I’m here,” Martin says, so soothing through his tremors.

Jon waits. Jon watches. Martin’s face is red from the cold and his eyes red from tears. He looks up into Jon’s eyes. Martin reaches up, so slowly, until his hands are framing Jon’s face and a thumb brushes Jon’s cheekbone and the heartbeat is right there, beating faster every second. 

“Would you like my statement?” Martin asks after minutes of Jon above him, ready to strike but never moving. Martin’s teeth are chattering and he’s shivering against Jon and his voice is so warm Jon leans further in to feel it. Carefully, Martin continues the movement, pulls Jon close until their faces are pressed cheek to cheek. Jon inhales and it feels so familiar it almost hurts.

“I didn’t know the man was hunting me. I only noticed him because he was, um, really good-looking…” 

Jon curls into the man, tries to curl into the words, and listens.

* * *

The envelope has _ To Martin _ scrawled across it. Martin isn’t sure if he recognizes the handwriting or if he is just aware that there’s no other person that would leave an envelope at the door of an empty shop, windows still bearing “Going out of business sale!”. Part of him wants to toss it aside and move on. It’s already hard enough trying to remember how to be good at being lonely.

It was easy enough, being alone, when he had nothing. Having something to lose… Losing _ Jon _… Martin discovers all over again how loneliness can cut at you, flay you bit by bit until you want to scream but instead carefully wipe away the bloody marks you leave behind. He doesn’t think he could stand the hope.

He considers all of this, and then tucks the envelope close to his chest and enters the closed down shop.

_ Dear Martin, _

_ I wanted to speak with you but I know that our previous encounters were a result of my actions and didn’t leave you with much say in anything and I would like to avoid that. I don’t want to force you. I never wanted to force you. I assumed you enjoyed our time together but I never asked. I’m sorry for that. _

_ I especially don’t want to leave you feeling as if you can’t escape. I will let you go, if that is what you want. If you no longer wish to see me I do not blame you and I promise you this will be the last time I search for you. But I didn’t want our final interaction to be when I wasn’t myself. _

_ I am sorry for hurting you. I am sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for everything. I say that I wasn’t myself but deep down I know that whatever that creature was, at my core, it’s me. _

_ But most of all I want to say thank you. Thank you for finding me. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for- everything. _

_ Should you decide to risk it, you can find me at this address. My house is always open to you.  
_

_ Yours, _

_ Jon _

Tears are hard to read through, but Martin forces himself to read the letter again and again, careful to keep any drops from landing on the page and smudging the ink. 

The envelope was obviously hand delivered. The back wasn’t even sealed shut properly. Martin folds the letter into the envelope, places it back in the inside pocket of his coat, and walks outside.

The street is empty. If Jon didn’t want to be seen Martin is sure he’d never be able to find him.

“Jon?” he says, quieter than he meant to. He clears his throat and tries again, louder, “Jon?”

There’s no response. Martin starts walking. 

This could be a trap, some bizarre, long con of cat and mouse. But when Jon opens the door to his apartment, the surprise and delight on his face is enough to throw aside the dark whispers in the back of Martin's mind.

“Martin! I, uh, wasn’t expecting you,” Jon says, brushing his hair back quickly and then standing aside to open the door wider. “Would you like to come in? Or I could come out, if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Martin says. The entryway opens into a small kitchen that doesn’t look well-used. Jon leaves the door open and goes to stand behind a kitchen counter. 

“Um, should I…?” Martin gestures to the door.

“If you’re comfortable with that,” Jon says, every word carefully considered. Unsure, Martin closes the door behind him.

The room feels smaller with the exit blocked. Jon’s presence looms. Martin, absurdly, feels like swooning.

“You didn’t find me again,” Martin says after a minute of them staring at each other.

Jon swallows, nods, looks down at his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me.”

“What? Why not?”

Jon’s head snaps back up. “Why not- Martin, I _ hurt _ you!”

“Oh, no, Jon, that wasn’t you.”

“Don’t!” Jon says with a snarl. He has to take a deep breath to calm himself, and his features soften. “Let’s not kid ourselves. We both know what- what I really am.”

Martin hesitates, too many words choking his throat, and he doesn’t even think about what he’s saying. “What we both are.”

Jon’s hands still, then grip onto the edge of the counter hard enough that Martin can see them turning white.

“You didn’t mean to,” Martin says.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t still.”

Martin shrugs, tries to smile. “If you could catch me.” Jon grimaces back, his eyes not reaching Martin’s.

“I thought…” Martin starts to say but immediately regrets it. Instinctively he starts to fade out but- he looks at Jon, trying so hard even though it obviously pains him, and forces himself to stay.

“You thought?” Jon prompts.

“I thought that, maybe, you didn’t want to see _ me _ anymore.”

“_ What _ ?” Jon gapes at Martin. “I don’t- that doesn’t- _ what _?”

“So I was wrong?”

“I- yes, Martin! Of course you were wrong!” Jon snaps but immediately freezes, pulls himself back from where he’d been leaning over the counter. “Sorry, that’s not what- I didn’t mean to- to- insult you, or. Well. I just meant that, um, I’d always… I’d always like to see you. If you would want to, of course.”

The air is caught in Martin’s lungs. It’s hard to _ think _, let alone breathe, and Martin isn’t sure if he’s ever been more terrified than he is in this moment and he’d die before he ever gave it up.

“I don’t understand,” Martin chokes out. “You caught me.”

Jon jerks his head up to stare at Martin disbelievingly. Slowly, he moves out from behind his barrier to stand in front of Martin. He is glacier in his movements, telegraphing his every intention a thousand times over, and Martin still can’t quite believe it when Jon reaches out and gently holds Martin’s hand in his.

“I caught you,” Jon says, staring down at their hands. Martin grips on to Jon’s hand tighter. Jon lets out a shaky exhale and looks up into Martin’s eyes. “And you caught me.”

* * *

There is a succulent on Jon's counter. Sometimes he forgets that it's there, sometimes he wants to throw it against the wall or clutch on to it like it's his only lifeline. It is always green and healthy, even though he's not great at remembering to water it.


End file.
